


Tomorrow Starts With You

by Sakrea



Series: Heart of Stone [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Oops I made it happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakrea/pseuds/Sakrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo Baggins had expected to spend the rest of his natural life alone and grieving. After his supposedly deceased love turns up on his doorstep, he allows himself to think, "Perhaps not."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I had no intention of continuing this series.  
> I just accidentally came up for a story idea that fit in nicely with what I had already wrote.  
> So, now the ending is happy. Oops. Or is it...?

Burden has a way of wearing down on someone. It cuts deep, but slow, like water on stone. It leaves marks that can sometimes be filled or repaired, if shallow enough. A truly great burden however, leaves holes and ruts, scars that will never quite go away.

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, former King Under the Mountain, knew this all too well. The burden he carried came from the fall of his people, the loss of their home. He shouldered his grandfather's greed and death, and the loss of his father. He was heir to the mountain and he took all burdens that came with it.

But now, for the first time in over a century, Thorin felt... light. The dragon slain, his homeland returned, his people would be restored. Though he was no longer king, everything he had set out to do had been accomplished. He was free. And while that felt strange, empty even, everything was right with the world.

Well almost everything. He was dead after all. Cut down in the Battle of the Five Armies, he had died under Bilbo's watchful eye, his hobbit. Oh how he missed him.

Bilbo had talked until darkness took him, speaking of love, a promise of life together, hopeful and bright. Unable to bear the Lonely Mountain after that, the hobbit had departed for his home less than a day later, red-eyed and with little more than a broken heart to show for it.

So while Thorin's spirit felt light, he couldn't help but worry a little. How was his little burglar? As Thorin lay dying, Bilbo had admitted to returning his love. He had been ecstatic at the time, but now he realized that such a confession likely tore into his hobbits heart. Loving someone as their life drained from their eyes before you. He could only hope that Bilbo was holding it together as best he could now.

He also worried for his sister-sons. After his passing, Fili was to take the throne of Erebor. He knew that both boys could handle the pressures of leadership, but after what he had suffered, leaving them to the same fate was hard. How would this burden change them? How long would they remain the boys he had always known?

There was nothing he could do now of course. His actions were set in stone, his mind made up. He continued forward.

 

 

Thorin had expected to run into company on his journey. He had been counting on it. However, he had been hoping for a far happier greeting than the one he was receiving now."

" _Muradul!"_

Thorin deflected the spear aimed at his face with his sword, feeling the scars on his chest pull painfully. "Cease this attack at once!" he grunted.

Bifur only swept his weapon toward him again.

"Bofur, stop him!" Thorin shouted, stepping out of the way just in time. Despite the axe embedded in his head, Bifur was exceptionally good with a spear and it was only a matter of time before he ended up a pin cushion for him.

"To be honest, I'm not sure if I should." Bofur piped up from behind Bifur. He was brandishing his mattock, but looked hesitant to actually use it. "Thorin, when last we saw, ye were dead!"

"And that is a justifiable reason to try to kill me again?!"

For a moment, Bofur looked ready to retort, but seemed to think better of it. He lowered his weapon and stepped toward where his cousin was swinging intently at the former leader of their company. He laid a hand on his shoulder and murmured something in his ear. Bifur seemed none too pleased, leveling Thorin with a glare, but he stopped his attack for the time being.

"Thank you." Thorin grunted, rubbing one hand over his aching chest as he relaxed his stance.

"Look, no offense, but until ye explain all of..." Bofur waved an arm at his former king. "This, the being alive business, we can't exactly trust ya."

Bifur grunted something and jabbed his spear toward Thorin.

"Basically, we want to make sure ya aren't some sort of evil spirit or crazed hallucination, ya see."

On one hand, Thorin understood their suspicion. Bofur and Bifur had left with Bilbo after the battle, intent on getting him back to the Shire unharmed. The return journey was bound to have been significantly easier, but not entirely without it's risks. He had not been around to make the decision, but he was more than pleased that the company had arranged it as such.

On the other hand, to have his companions, his friends, look on him as a malevolent spirit intent on haunting them was more than a little frustrating.

"I'm not dead, though many still believe me to be." Thorin began, sheathing his sword now that Bifur seemed to have concluded his jabbing. "Apparently, after Bilbo pronounced me to have passed, Oin failed to perform his own examination of my body before I was moved to the crypt for proper burial." Following this mistake, Thorin had given the resident medic an earful, most of which he failed to hear anyway.

"Ye were covered in yer own blood! Ye looked nearly split in half from yer wounds!" Bofur protested. "Ye can't tell me ye were still alive."

Thorin nodded grimly. "For the next two days. Apparently no one noticed my lack of rigor mortis and the fact that my skin wasn't completely frigid. At least until Gandalf came to check on my corpse."

Bifur nudged his cousin and gestured wildly, to which Bofur nodded quickly, repeating the question to Thorin.

"Why did no one come after us? We were less than two days gone from Erebor! Our burglar was beside himself with grief!"

Thorin grimaced and glared at a rock by his foot. "Had I been conscious to make the decision, I would have sent for you. Oin thought it best not to get anyone's hopes up. I was far gone as it was and he doubted I would live."

"But ye did? Ye recovered and now... Ye are here. Instead of in Erebor?" Bofur's brow furrowed beneath his hat. "Why?"

Nudging the rock with his toe, Thorin looked up at the toymaker and smiled. "Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain is dead. Buried in Erebor with the Dwarf Lords of Old."

For a moment, this only seemed to confuse Bofur more, and then, understanding dawning in his eyes, he grinned back. "Everyone thinks yer dead." He said slowly. "Well, most everyone. Who else?"

"Just the company and Gandalf."

"And yer on the East Road." The toymaker continued, his grin crinkling his face, glee sounding in his voice now. "Yer going to see Bilbo!"

All of a sudden, Bifur dropped his spear to the road and let out a whoop, his fist pumping in the air. He gave a big, toothy grin to the former King Under the Mountain before sweeping him into a crushing hug.

Thorin grunted at the indignity of it, as well as from the crushing grip. He tried to remind himself that he may be royalty, he can no longer claim the necessity of maintaining the public image to disallow this kind of... social contact.

It was another moment before Bofur descended and squeezed the two of them with a laugh. "Always knew you had sense when it came to our little hobbit."

"Yes, well... I may not have purposely faked my own death, but I am willing to use the situation to my own advantage." Thorin replied when he managed to extract himself from the two, though Bifur continued his excited patting of his shoulder.

"By going to the Shire and sweeping our esteemed Mr. Baggins off of his large hairy feet and living happily ever after?"

"With any luck."

"Then I wish you all the luck in the world, my friend." Bofur replied, grinning as he gave Thorin a hearty slap to his back. "Now hurry and rescue our burglar from his grief."

 

 

It was, after another month of travel, that Thorin found himself in Hobbiton, where all of this had started.

By his estimate, Bilbo had been back in his Hobbit-Hole for nearly two months. It was a long time to be alone, grieving. The thought of it drove Thorin's feet faster through the narrows paths of the settlement.

The sun had set more than an hour ago, and he felt himself reliving that first night where he had lost his way twice before finding the residence of Gandalf's chosen fourteenth member of their company. The night was pleasantly cool and the heady scent of grass drifted around him. Lights twinkled out of windows around him and he could hear the sound of families laughing and talking together. There was merriment in this little settlement he had missed the first time he had come. It was all very domestic, something he had never wanted back then, such a short time ago. But now... Domestic had driven him from his kingdom, through forests, and mountains. It was all he really wanted now.

Thorin was pleased when he found he remembered the way to Bag-End and its big green door appeared on the hill above him. A single dim light flickered out into the night from the kitchen.

_He was home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I want to thank bilbolovesthorin over on tumblr for giving me the idea on how Thorin survives after my previous fic!
> 
> And I would just like to say, that if all goes as planned, there are quite a few more chapters coming...
> 
> *Muradul! - Khuzdul for spirit. It's probably not correct, because the language is complicated, but I tried...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, well this chapter is quite a bit longer than what I am used to writing, sorry it took me so long!
> 
> I can't say how long the next bit will take, it might be a busy week for me, but I'll do my best.
> 
> Also, thank you for the lovely reviews I have gotten. I very much enjoy them!

He feels strung up tight. Every muscle in his body is pulled taut across bone, no matter how hard he tries to relax them. His body aches from the constant strain, but only dully. He can hardly feel it, too busy to truly sense it. That's his fault though, he supposes. If he truly wanted, he could let the tension fade, he could pause for a moment, let the muscles in his shoulders unbunch. He could put on some tea and put his feet up.

No, he couldn't do that. It might, for the briefest of moments, allow him release, but with it followed an onslaught of emotion that proved a worse feeling than being strung up tight.

On the return journey to the Shire, Bilbo had been surprisingly calm, a fact that had caused no small amount of worry to Bofur and had prompted Bifur to watch over him like a hawk. In those days they had walked and walked and walked some more. He had chatted easily with Bofur, about his life in the Shire, things that made a hobbit respectable, and of the comforts of home. If either of his companions noticed that he avoided the subject of their adventure, they didn't comment.

He had felt their concern, nearly palpable every night at camp. After their typical light dinners, he would promptly roll over and fall asleep to their eyes on his back. Some mornings he woke, pillowed between the two dwarves, achingly warm.

"Ye were shivering something fierce." Bofur had said the first night, giving him a pitying look. "And ye were calling out in yer sleep."

Bilbo hadn't needed to ask whose name it was he'd called for.

Only once, on that long trip, did Bilbo cry. Their path back over the Misty Mountains was slightly different than their original trip, but they still passed within sight of the Carrock, the place where Bilbo's heart had begun to belong to another. Without realizing it, tears had begun to run hot down his cheeks. Bofur had pressed a travel worn handkerchief against his cheeks, a comforting hand rubbing carefully against his back. Bifur had grunted nonsensical Khuzdul, comforting in its own way, though it sounded as if he might have been threatening the distant rock formation.

After a time, Bilbo had regained himself, nearly begging in a low and broken voice for the small party to keep moving.

"I don't think I can stand it," he said. "I just need it to be out of sight."

It had been the only time Bilbo had broken, acknowledged the hurt and the pain. The dwarves had complied and shuffled onward. Neither seemed quite content to let Bilbo stew as he had been, but they seemed unsure of how to help him.

Once or twice at night, he had heard them whispering in hushed tones about him.

"In shock" and "unhealthy grieving" were two things murmured. He also thought he heard the term "walking dead" applied to him.

Finally, almost a year to the day after he had departed, Bilbo returned to Bag End. It might have been a happier reunion had he not arrived halfway through a public auction of his belongings. As it turned out, the good people of Hobbiton had declared him dead in his absence and had commenced an estate sale.

Luckily, two unhappy dwarves and a frantically upset Hobbit proved enough to clear out the unwelcome sales by mid afternoon, though Bilbo was more than a little dismayed to find near half of his belongings already sold off.

It did him some good though, chasing people from his home. The frenzied defense distracted him for a time, allowed him to focus on his task.

Both dwarves seemed to take it as a sign that his heart might perhaps be on the mend. However, it was nearly another two weeks before he managed to convince his friends to leave.

"Go, your home is in Erebor," Bilbo reminded them. "We chased a dragon out to return it to you." Unspoken among them was just how much they had lost in the events that followed. Smaug seemed a distant memory now in comparison.

"Yer our friend Mr. Baggins, we just want to make sure yer okay before we go." Bofur chided gently.

"I am fine, Bofur. I'm home, I've got my books and my maps and as soon as you're gone, I'll have another adventure to embark upon."

At that Bofur looked at him quizzically.

"I'll have to attempt to retrieve my things from my fellow hobbits, but worst of all, I'll have to steal back my silver from those thrice-damned Sackville Baggins!"

They both laughed at that, and though Bifur seemed to not completely understand the joke, he joined in.

So Bifur and Bofur gathered their supplies and left. They went, wet-eyed from farewells, after they both had bruised nearly all of Bilbo's ribs in bone crushing hugs. Bifur had even taken the opportunity to snatch a flower from the garden and press it firmly into the hobbit's hands, chattering solemnly in Khuzdul. They walked away, waving and shouting back at that big green door until they disappeared around the hill.

Bilbo Baggins shut the door to Bag End. With a stab of utter emptiness, he sank carefully down on the mat and sobbed; great heaving cries that wracked his body and echoed through his comfy, empty house. He cried until his lungs were sore and his cheeks were red and swollen, his eyes eventually dried only because no more tears would come. Emotionally strained and entirely exhausted, he curled up where he sat and fell asleep, hiccupping quietly until the darkness took him.

When he woke up the next morning, he was sore all over and horrible thirsty with a pounding headache to boot. His halls were achingly quiet. No shuffling of boots or clinking of buckles on clothes. All he heard were his own soft snuffles.

Bilbo felt torn, not as if between choices, but well and truly torn. Not so long ago, he had been content in his life, living day by day as a true Hobbit of the Shire. He'd entertained guests, chatted with neighbors, ate and smoked his way through much of the day, and dabbled in his vegetable garden. A regular bachelor, alone in his daily life except when company called and that was how he had liked it. Then, in come a company of thirteen dwarves to whisk him off on an adventure and suddenly all he had enjoyed seemed silly and far too civil to be fun. No longer did second breakfast seem so important, nor being polite and respectable in his neighbor's eyes. No longer was he a bachelor either. He could hardly call himself such a thing, his fiancé dying before his eyes. Truly, a widower seemed a more appropriate title.

The former burglar slid his hand into his waistcoat pocket, his fingers touching cold metal and he felt no better. The bulky silver and blue ring, never resized for his much smaller fingers, had been more a burden than a comfort to him since leaving Erebor. He could no longer bring himself to wear it, afraid of losing it on his travels. Now he refused to put it on, withdrawing his hand. The band seemed ever frigid now, even so close to his own heat. It posed a horrible reminder, icy as death.

In the midmorning sun that crept into his windows, Bilbo tucked his knees against his chest and felt fresh tears prick at his eyes. He clamped his bottom lip between his teeth and bit back his sobs.

It was several hours before Bilbo felt steady enough to stand and leave the door, a headache buzzing painfully behind his eyes. That day, he drank only water and ate little more than a piece of toast. He spent much time curled up, staring out of his windows listlessly, feeling lost within himself.

On the second day, Bilbo woke famished and with his head pounding still. Feeling rather opposed to moving, but forcing himself anyway, he shuffled tiredly to the cupboard only to discover how little food he actually had. It was with much weariness that the hobbit managed to dress himself and saunter awkwardly to the market to keep himself from starving.

It was on this trip that Bilbo learned the trick to surviving his memories and regrets.

At the market, the son of Belladonna Took found himself bombarded on all sides by the residents of Hobbiton. Where had he gone, was he staying for good this time, do you plan on running off on anymore adventures, oh you really should come by for tea sometime, so terribly sorry about the auction my boy, and so on and so forth. Every single lad, lass, and hobbitling vied for his attention and he found, that for a time, he could forget. With so much going on, he hardly had time to just sit back and remember...

Thus, Bilbo began to find every single excuse to fill his days. For a time, he would spend hours a day, catching up with neighbors and family, chatting for hours upon hours about mindless subjects he cared little for, but paid rapt attention to regardless. When that became dull, and it did rather quickly, he switched to attending legal matters. Chasing down and attempting to reclaim his sold, or stolen, as he preferred to call it, property proved to be a rather extreme consumer of his time. He relished it all the more, and chased his belongings with a ferocity that put even the Sackville-Baggins on edge.

On his more calm days, Bilbo found solace in his more agreeable relatives. He hugely favored visits to his cousin Primula and her family. They were kind and far less inclined to make nasty comments about how his adventure had tainted family respectability. He also found a young friend in their son, Frodo. The boy, though young and well mannered, had the curiosity and spark of an adventurer. Bilbo found himself visiting the family on many a day simply to tell the boy stories. Of course, as much as Bilbo tried to steer away from them, the hobbitling always begged for more heroic tales from his adventure. He told him of arguing trolls, majestic eagles bigger than houses, a man that could become a great bear, and a dragon sleeping atop a kingdom's long forgotten gold. But for all the stories he told, the ending remained unspoken. If ever the boy asked how the story ended, Bilbo would merely sigh sadly, pat his head, and promise to tell him someday.

For nearly two months, Bilbo Baggins attended to task after task after task. He was relentless, he was social, he was a busy body. During the day, he was nearly never alone and rarely was he still for long. Each passing day strung his body tighter, the constant movement and constant strain of all that he held back built up until he felt near ready to snap. Honestly, he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep this pattern up before his body gave in.

When the sun sank below the horizon each night, things were drastically different. Each night, Bilbo returned home, tired, with no more business to attend to until morning. He'd lock the front door, hang up his coat, and sink back into the miserable depths of his mind. Many nights he cried himself to sleep, a ghostly baritone clouding the depths of his mind. Other nights he merely sat in contemplative silence, regret and sorrow locking his eyes onto some point on the wall he wasn't truly seeing. Sometimes he slept, sometimes he didn't, but always the loneliness in his heart and the emptiness of his home threatened to suffocate him.

Tonight, Bilbo found himself settled in his kitchen, feeling like a small, sad stranger in his own home. Before him lay the remains of his supper, barely touched and forgotten even hours later. A single candle flickered on the surface before him, illuminating the room in a dim light that fit his mood. There was a seat opposite of him, empty, as it should be, seeing as he had no late night visitors this evening. Bilbo's eyes bore into the empty air around it.

 

_"...We can have dinner in the kitchen every night, just the two of us."_

_"My cooking skills are rather lacking..."He cracks a smile, the tear in his lip pulling taut._

_I smile sadly. "Then I'll cook and you can clean up. Fair?"_

_He chuckles, though the sound is pained and watery. He flinches despite himself. "Fair."_

The memory sends a few drops down Bilbo's cheeks. He thinks often of those last moments with him, his King. They had spent his final moments together, the dwarf's chest a web of gashes, weaving tales of a simple life together they would never be able to share.

With a shudder, Bilbo manages to turn his eyes away, pressing the heels of his hands against his face. His lungs hitch and he struggles not to sob.

_Thump._

The hobbit looks up, for a moment unsure if he had even heard anything. After a few moments of silence, he is convinced he had imagined it.

_**Thump. Thump. Thump.** _

This time, the sound is loud and sure, as if whoever was knocking on his door had reaffirmed their resolve.

For a brief moment, Bilbo almost panicked. No one should be at his door so late and he shouldn't be expected to actually answer it. If he was quiet, and he always was, he could simply sneak off to his room and his unexpected visitor would eventually get bored and leave.

No, this one isn't going to just leave, he thought then. The hair at the nape of his neck was standing on end and a strange feeling settled in the pit of his gut. This visitor was different than the norm, he was sure. It drove him to put down his anxiety.

So Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, did what he always did in situations like these. He brushed the tears from his eyes, tied his robe around him, and went to answer the door.

While uncertain of what it was he would find when that big green door swung open, he had not been expecting the bright blue eyes of a ghost to be staring back at him.

"Mr. Baggins... I am forever at your service."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I made it sad again.  
> I'm rather bad at staying away from angst...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys, I actually wasn't even expecting this chapter to be up until Friday!
> 
> Fun fact, I have three tests this week, all of my normal weekly assignments, and also a concert to go to in the middle of it. Whew.
> 
> Luckily, I managed to get this out in the middle of it. Not sure when I'll manage the next one though...
> 
> And thank you to everyone who leaves kudos and reviews! They make me very happy. :D

There was a moment, short as it was, that Bilbo was sure he would faint. His vision tunneled in so he could only see the shadowed dwarf and he felt his head spin. He gripped the door frame to prevent himself from toppling over, but it did little to alleviate his condition.

Then, in another moment, he remembered to  _breathe_  and the world settled around him.

The ghost in front of him looked so pleased to see him, in that way that was so warm and gentle and achingly familiar, it would have sent butterflies fluttering about in his stomach on any other occasion. But Bilbo didn't really see that smile. All he could see was rent armor and blood soaked bandages and so many wounds...

Bilbo's breathing went from barely there to a sudden harsh gasp.

"Nope! No, not today, not ever!" The hobbit managed to choke out as he swung his big green door shut. He didn't miss the ghost's expression change, a raw hurt showing through. Bilbo locked the door and threw the deadbolt for good measure.

_**Thump. Thump. Thump.** _

"Bilbo?"

The hobbit let out a soft whimper and sagged against the door.

"Oh dear..."

"Bilbo!" Another thump followed the shout.

"Oh no, no, no, no..."

"Please... Let me in..." The voice was soft now, pleading, barely audible through the door. That scared the poor Halfling more than the shouting. "My burglar..."

"I'm trying you know..." Bilbo said after a moment, letting his head fall back against the wood. He wasn't sure if the ghost dwarf could hear him but he continued anyway. "I'm trying to move on. It's hard, this life. Dying was so much easier."

The spirit quieted for a moment and Bilbo took his opportunity. He pushed himself off of the door and fled silently down the hall into his room.

As quickly as he could, Bilbo yanked the curtains closed, nudged a heavy dresser part way in front of his door, and practically dove under the covers.

A dull thumping echoed into his room from the front door. He heard his name being called.

"It's happened! I knew it would!" Bilbo breathed curling up under his mother's quilt. He shivered despite the heat in the room. "I've snapped! It was all too much!"

Oh, he had suspected this might happen. He was perfectly aware of what his unorthodox emotional habits were doing to him. Once he had woken up, thinking he heard Thorin calling out for him. Of course, it had only been a dream, but the voice had rung in his ears as his eyes opened. Since then, he was sure he would, though he desperately hoped he wouldn't, start seeing his dear king in his waking hours.

The thumping continued down the hall and Bilbo pressed his head under his pillow, trembling fiercely. It did little to drown out the racket his unwanted memory brought to life was causing.

Desperately, the hobbit willed himself to sleep, hoping that it would bring reprieve from this torment. With the apprehension in his tiny form, sleep took a long time to find him. It was only when his exhaustion won out over his adrenaline, hours later, did he finally drift into blackness.

 

 

Bilbo woke slowly; the only light in his room a thin sliver of sun between his curtains that shone right into his eyes. Blearily, he uncurled himself, feeling sticky with his own sweat and sore across his lower back. It seemed that tucking into a ball under the sanctity of a mound of blankets with the windows shut on a summer night had been a bad idea.

"I suppose overheating is the least of my worries," he muttered to the floor. He was under no illusions that last night had been a dream. It had been the product of his finally broken mind, but it was no dream. He found it a blessing that his ghost dwarf had at least ceased his attack on the door at some point during the night.

 _Goodness knows when I'll see him again though_ , he thought. Bilbo considered diving back under the covers and hiding in his bed for the rest of the day.

Unfortunately, the dryness in his throat demanded his attention and he set about pushing his dresser away from where it was blocking the exit. A few gentle shoves and he opened the door to his room. With all the silence and surefootedness of a hobbit, he padded down the hall in much the same manner as he had done one-year prior, the morning after dwarves had ransacked his home. He tried his best to shove that comparison back down in his mind.

Content that his home was empty of any figments of his imagination, Bilbo sought out the kitchen. He set up a pot of tea on the stove easily, finding comfort in the simple ritual of preparing it. He glanced at a tray of scones at the corner of the table, considered it for a moment, then decided against it as his stomach churned. Apparently he was forgoing first breakfast.

With the tea heating, Bilbo set one of his less loved teacups at the table (he didn't quite trust himself not to drop the china, mental as he was).

It was then, passing near the window that he caught a whiff of it. Someone was smoking in his garden. He recognized it at once and sighed. It was certainly not any weed of Shire make. He didn't think he could ever forget the overpowering stench of dwarven weed.

 _No peace, even during teatime,_  he groaned internally. He shot a longing look back at the ugly little cup he had set out for himself and sighed. There really was no helping it.

His footsteps unsure, the hobbit made his way toward the big green door to his home. Casting a glance down at the wayward mat, he saw it was rumpled from the previous night. He adjusted it briefly before his eyes locked back on the door.

"There's really just no helping it." He reminded himself softly as he undid the locks.

The door to Bag End was well oiled and lovingly taken care of, so it made no sound as it opened several feet. Nonetheless, when Bilbo took a step out and peered down at his little bench by the front of the garden, there were already a set of eyes turned towards him intently. Those lovely blue orbs stared at him in a look that could only be described as hopeful.

"No." And Bilbo stepped back inside again, slamming the door shut.

Almost immediately, the door opened back up, Bilbo scrubbing a hand over his face.

"No, I mean... I wasn't..." The hobbit let out a frustrated sigh.

The ghost king sat patiently on his bench, torso twisted round to look back up at the entrance to the hobbit hole. The hopeful look had faltered, but was not extinguished completely.

"Obviously..." Bilbo started again, mounting up the last of his sanity. "Obviously, I won't be able to just get rid of you. This," he waved a hand toward the dwarf. "Is not just going to disappear anytime soon. So, you might as well come in. Better I know where you are than spend my day worrying where you might next turn up."

The ghost's expression fell, something akin to heartbreak flashing across those too handsome features.

"Bilbo..."

Oh, hearing that voice again... He tried to ignore the shivers it still drove through him.

"If you truly dislike my presence, I will go." His voice held all the command it had in life, though the tone was laced with misery.

"Don't be daft." Bilbo shot back, crossing his arms over his chest. "I couldn't get rid of you that easily and we both know it."

The dwarf's brow furrowed in confusion. "So you wish me to stay?"

"Oh, just come inside, will you? The tea's ready." Bilbo huffed and opened the door wider.

It took a moment before the ghost dwarf stamped the fire from his pipe, then he stood and walked up the stone path, looking all the while like he was struggling to say something. He gave pause in the doorway, close enough to the hobbit that he could have easily reached out and touched him. And oh how it looked like this living memory wanted to touch him. Bilbo would have been lying if he didn't admit that a very strong part of him wanted to throw his arms around this illusion and never let go.

Luckily for Bilbo, neither seemed quite ready to close the distance and they both stepped inside the hall. It was only now that he noticed how different the king looked from his memories. His clothes were simpler, the same deep blue that looked so good on him, but it held no exceptional patterns or decorations. He saw a hint of that familiar armor, but it was hidden beneath a simple brown leather jerkin.

"I didn't wish to be recognized on the road." The ghost said, catching Bilbo's stare.

"Right, of course. Can't have that, now can we?" Bilbo sighed, turning away to head back into the kitchen. Apparently his mind was so far gone, that he wasn't just seeing the dead king, but apparently creating a story for his presence here as well.

He heard the heavy footfalls as the dwarf followed him to the kitchen and he briefly considered whether ghosts drank tea.

 _I'm already crazy, no need to be rude as well_ , Bilbo concluded, pulling one of his other crap teacups from the pantry and setting it on the table across from his.

"Sit." He commanded.

The dwarf looked around awkwardly, regarding the kitchen and the resident hobbit with uncertainty, like he thought he should be doing something else. At the order, however, he seated himself at the table obediently.

Once Bilbo had served the tea, he gratefully sat down and took a sip. Due to the situation at hand, the sensation was heavenly. Odd as it was, he felt more at ease then he had in a long while. He wasn't putting on a show for anyone, his body was relaxed, and there wasn't a nagging sensation to think about his now dead fiancée because said dwarf was sitting across the table from him.

The ghost himself took a sip of the tea, managing to look regal despite the sad state of the small teacup. He set it down with a heavy exhale. "Bilbo..."

"Mmm?"

"You left me outside all night."

"I did."

"I can't help but wonder about that. As well as this morning."

Bilbo glanced at him around his tea. He wondered if perhaps he could eat a scone now. "What about it?" he asked distractedly, standing up from the table.

"I don't believe you want me here, despite your earlier words." The dwarf's gaze followed him as he moved around the kitchen, retrieving the plate of scones and bringing it back.

"Yes, well. I suppose I don't." Bilbo said, he picked up one and nibbled on the end of it experimentally.

"Then I will leave and you can be free of me." His voice sounded defensive now, though Bilbo was familiar enough with him to know that it was only a way of hiding the hurt.

There was a pregnant pause in which the hobbit stared at him almost cooly over his teacup. "Thorin, could you leave it? We both know you will not be going anywhere any time soon." Actually saying his name seemed strange then, like he was permanent,  _real._ Somehow he found he liked it.

"Burglar, you are making no sense." Thorin replied, looking equal parts confused and frustrated.

"Oh you'd think I wouldn't have to spell it out for you..." Bilbo sighed. After all, this ghost was just an extension of his mind. Oh well, if his insanity thought to show the dwarf king to him, it might as well be in full, including his thick-headedness.

Thorin looked ready to spring from his seat in his own defense, but Bilbo held out a hand to silence him.

"Thorin Oakenshield, whether or not either of us like it, you have burrowed your way deeply into my heart, body, and mind. At this point, it really only makes sense for you to make yourself at home in Bag End as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I kind of accidentally made the plot longer.
> 
> I meant for this story to have two chapters of plot, then like 6 chapters of stupid fluff. Oops.
> 
> Whelp, hope you don't mind waiting on the fluff a bit longer...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, tests and family had life busy.
> 
> Unfortunately, the next chapter may take a similar amount of time do to for about the same reasons, though hopefully not.

Bilbo Baggins was an enigma. That was really the only way to go about it.

Thorin had expected either fainting or joyfully shock (he had hoped for passionately shocked with a side of lust, but that was another matter) from his burglar. He had gotten a door in the face and an all night snubbing. Now, he was honestly surprised to be welcomed in at all.

Bilbo had continued to regard him coolly, his body language screaming, "don't touch me" so loudly even he could see it. As hard as it was not to reach out and gather his lover against him, he complied. Though he was sure the effort showed through with a frustrated frown lingering on his lips.

"I want pie."

"Pie?" Thorin returned, raising one thick eyebrow in question.

Bilbo's eyes darted across the table, everywhere but on Thorin, his mouth tightening into a thin line. He harrumphed and stood up in a smooth, albeit stiff motion.

"Bilbo?"

The hobbit didn't reply, just hustled out of the room and down the hall. The strangest part of it was that the normally quiet man could now be heard noisily rooting around in his food storage. Bowls and plates were moved, set down hard, shuffled, and erratically emptied. When he returned with an armful of apples and other various ingredients, the former King Under the Mountain was regarding him with raised brows. Bilbo paid him no heed.

"So... Apple pie then?" he asked.

The Halfling only grunted offhandedly before half throwing the food on the table.

"Are you feeling well...?" Thorin wasn't sure if that was the best question to be asking him, but he was rather unwilling to leave the table to check on him physically either.

"I've been better," Was the reply as Bilbo began the single most violent making of a piecrust he had ever witnessed. He half expected the flour to scream for mercy.

"Surely my presence here isn't that distressing..."

Bilbo practically threw a handful of flour at the table, splattering the front of his shirt in a dusting of white. "No, it's very distressing," he half laughed. He withdrew a rolling pin from a drawer and slapped a ball of dough on the flour-covered counter.

"Why? Surely the initial shock was hard, but this..." Thorin swallowed and hesitated, eyeing the rolling pin. Honestly, _that_  was making him nervous? Trolls, a dragon, the Pale Orc and it was a crazed Halfling with a rolling pin that gave him pause? "I'm alive, Bilbo, and I am here."

"No, you are dead." Bilbo grunted, half beating the dough ball until it flattened beneath his brutal attack. "You've been dead since I left Erebor and I've been mourning since I walked into that forsaken tent!"

"I'm sorry, I-"

"Oh, I am sure you are!" The hobbit shot back with a short laugh. "Well fat lot of good that does me!" The rolling pin was moving furiously over the counter, his curls bouncing along with the motion. "I'm still mourning. That's not going to just go away because you show up all blue eyes and-and lovely hair and all of your usual handsome nonsense! I love you Thorin, and that makes this  _so_  much harder for me."

Despite the tone, Thorin found himself smiling at those words. The last time he had heard them, he had been near delirious with pain. To hear them now, Bilbo 's apparent annoyance aside, brought a warmth to his belly he found he'd been lacking.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself." Bilbo grumbled, arranging the dough in the pie pan he'd brought out.

"I love you Bilbo."

The hobbit grunted in acceptance and moved on to the process of chopping the apples and mixing them with brown sugar, some butter, and several spices Thorin could only identify as "brown and thoroughly ground up."

Due to both the proximity of the knives and the almost comfortable silence the pair had drifted into, Thorin contented himself with watching from the table. Bilbo threw the pie together with obvious practiced ease, never pausing to consider some ingredient or the next step. He just poured the filling in, tucked a layer of dough across the top, and pricked little slits in the surface.

"It looks... Good." He remarked, not entirely sure how else one could complement a yet unbaked dessert.

Bilbo once again grunted offhandedly, like he wasn't entirely listening or didn't particularly care to answer the other man. His thoughts looked entirely focused on his baking as he opened the oven door and slid the pie into the heat.

"Should be done soon, I hope." Thorin tried again, now searching desperately to secure the hobbit in conversation despite this icy treatment he was receiving. "It's been a long while since my last taste of such a dessert."

Bilbo gave no response, only dusted a little bit of the flour off of his already dirty shirt, and strode from the room with a purpose. Thorin heard him shuffle around in a nearby room followed shortly after by the sound of the front door opening and closing. For a moment, he allowed himself the childish sense of jealousy that came with being utterly ignored.

Thorin found himself with two choices then: brood in the house, refusing to acknowledge Bilbo as he was currently doing to the dwarf, or follow the hobbit and bar him a moments peace. He wrestled with the choice for a few minutes, thinking that perhaps Bilbo really just needed a little more time alone. Then again, he had just spent the better part of a half hour being treated like a spider in the highest corner of a ceiling that no broom was quite tall enough to get, so you were forced to sit there and glower at it helplessly. He didn't like it.

Finally coming to a decision, the former King rose from his seat and stepped toward the front door, telling himself it was to merely check on Bilbo, assuming the Hobbit hadn't just left Bag End entirely without so much as a by your leave, that is.

Swinging the door open, Thorin found his burglar sitting exactly where he had been only a short time ago; rear end planted on a fine little bench just behind the gate, puffing out little smoke rings. The sight made him pause in the doorway for a moment. Words floated across his memory, a sorrowful voice that had once painted an image in his mind.

 

 

_"I have a little bench just beyond the garden, you know. Wonderful for sitting and just watching the day go by... It's f-funny..." Bilbo's words hitched and he paused to squeeze several tears from his eyes, pressing his free hand to his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he continued, voice shaking, but steadier than before. "It's funny, but that was where I was when Gandalf found me. When he decided to drag me off on this mad adventure."_

_Thorin makes a soft sound, only a noise of affirmation that he's heard. He can do little else now. He's lucky that he can even still listen to the Halfling, his vision is swimming in black and his eyes are threatening to close. He gives another horrid, wet cough that leaves his lungs burning. The small hand in his clenches desperately at his fingers._

_"W-When you're well... When we return to the Shire, we'll sit out there, puffing on our pipes. None of that stuff you use though, just some good Old Toby pipeweed..."_

Whatever resentment may have been building up within him at Bilbo's attitude that day melted away. There was something akin to an ache in Thorin's heart now, a longing for the domestic scene that the hobbit had described to him on his deathbed.

Pushing the round door shut behind him, he moved down the stone steps and toward the little bench. Whether or not Bilbo had done it purposely or not, one side of the bench was clear for him to sit, the space between them broken only by a pouch of what he could only assume was Old Toby. Thorin settled down without waiting for permission, as Bilbo still seemed content to disregard his presence.

Retrieving his pipe from a small pouch at his side, Thorin glanced down the hill. Admittedly, his eyesight had been better in years passed, but he was fairly certain he saw a tiny hobbit child peering at him with wide eyes around a fence. When the fauntling caught his returning stare, he ducked away and scurried back out of sight. His lips twitched upward briefly in amusement and he turned to glance at his partner, though it didn't look as if Bilbo had seen.

"Old Toby..." Thorin murmured after a moment, tapping his pipe on his boot to empty it of its contents.

"Hm." Was the response, which was admittedly better than nothing.

"You used to brag of it often." The dwarf continued expectantly.

As he'd hoped, Bilbo popped the stem of his pipe from his lips and gestured at the pack by his side with it.

Thorin gave a small nod and picked up the pouch, glad to have something to do with his hands for even a moment as he filled and lit his own pipe.

"Subtle." He commented after a moment, blowing out a smoke ring that collided with the one Bilbo had just puffed out himself.

Finally, the Halfling looked at him, his eyes suddenly zooming into focus on the dwarf beside him. "Yes..." he breathed, brows pulling together in thought. "Compared to what you're used to, it is." Bilbo's eyes searched his in a way that seemed that he was finally seeing Thorin for the first time since he had come. "You're welcome to as much as you'd like. What's mine is yours, I suppose," he murmured.

In spite of himself, Thorin reached out and squeezed Bilbo's leg, hoping to ease that pained, haunted look the Halfling was giving him. "And what little I have left is yours." He returned.

Bilbo gave him a small smile, looking like he might cry. "Right then," he said, turning his eyes away again as he placed the stem of his pipe between his lips once more.

Thorin caught sight of the hobbit's other hand rising to fiddle with a blue and silver ring on a chain at his neck. He gave Bilbo's leg another affectionate squeeze before he turned away himself, smiling around his pipe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out to be kind of a necessary filler piece.
> 
> I gotta say, it was fun though.
> 
> Once again, this whole story was meant to be like two chapters of vague plot and then about six of fluff pieces. The plot continues to expand because I am accidentally dragging it out longer. Sorry, hope no one minds too much!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing! It means a lot to me that people actually like this!
> 
> So, due to additions of scenes that took way longer than they should have, this chapter is twice as long as a normal one, so enjoy!

The next week was simultaneously the most calming and stressful time since he had returned. The two very different states were very much in harmony at this point.

For starters, Bilbo had canceled all of the plans that had so far dominated his life. Rather than leaving early in the day to spend the morning with his Brandybuck cousins, he woke up leisurely and shared first, as well as second, breakfast with his new houseguest. He didn't spend teatime attempting to be interested in the gossip his neighbors so eagerly shared with him; he spent it baking biscuits. After lunch, he stayed in and read his books, rather than heading to the market and chattering idly with his fellow hobbits. He certainly didn't seek out his awful cousin Lobelia in the hopes of retrieving his silver. He was quite over that whole situation actually. She could keep the blasted spoons for all he cared.

Of course, his sudden disappearance from society had caused a bit of a stir. Several neighbors had come knocking on his door, calling for answers.

"Oh dear, you didn't come to tea yesterday, are you feeling well?"

"Master Baggins, we'd worried you'd up and left on one of your adventures again!"

Bilbo had all rather cheerily shooed away. Turning away company on his doorstep (he refused them entry for fear of his questionable mental state) with a smile on his face and no explanation was sure to cause talk. He didn't particularly mind though. For really the first time since he'd left over a year ago, he was freely resting. Imagine that, he got to sit around in his parlor with his feet propped up, a cup of tea at his side, and a book in his lap. It was all lovely and grand, except for one little detail of course; the source of his stress among relaxation.

Thorin Oakenshield, or rather the vision of him brought about by months of bottled up grief, was living at Bag End. It was a rather domestic, albeit, one-sided affair, though Bilbo slowly found himself warming up to it.

In the beginning, Bilbo had been bound and determined to ignore the ghostly king and all of the painful emotions he had dragged to the surface with him. Within a day, he had realized that particular notion was a lost cause. Ignoring the apparition had been about as easy as snubbing Thorin himself had been. As in life, he was demanding, as immovable as the Lonely Mountain, and hauntingly magnificent. He also trailed Bilbo around his home like a lost puppy most of the time. If Bilbo went anywhere, Thorin was at his heels, looking out of place and always like he intended to assist at the nearest opportunity.

As much as Bilbo had begun to accept his mad fantasy into his life, there were some things he still stood firm on.

The first night Thorin had spent inside Bag End had been a trying time. Bilbo had needed to put his foot down rather firmly and the results had nearly torn his heart in two all over again.

Settling down for the night, his nightshirt on and his sheets turned down, Thorin had waltzed in, travel worn pack in hand. Without waiting for permission, he put his things down and had begun to disrobe then and there. Bilbo had squeaked out a demand for him to stop, having to explain as forcefully as he could why the ghost dwarf  _ **had**_ to leave. He explained that his room was to be his respite, that he could not in his right mind share a room, let alone a bed, after all that had happened.

The look on Thorin's face had nearly caused the hobbit to break down in tears. His expression looked as if Bilbo had taken Orcist and stabbed him straight through the heart. Luckily, ever defensive in his vulnerabilities, Thorin had hid the look behind an expression of stone, mumbling his understanding and leaving the room. Thankfully, he had not tried since to join him, sparing him a repeat of the painful scene.

Since the ghost's arrival, Bilbo found himself crying far less; in fact it had become almost rare. He desperately missed Thorin, longed for a different fate than the one that had befallen him. Mostly, he craved the simple Shire life he and his lover had fantasized about in their last moments. But, he found his sorrow harder to justify when his dreams were fraternizing with reality before his very eyes.

In addition to that incident in the garden that first day, Bilbo had noticed Thorin attempting to perform several other actions that had been apart of their ideal life. After every meal, Thorin washed the dishes while Bilbo dried them. He was rather better at it then expected, only two plates and one bowl had been broken, all tacky looking dishware as Bilbo had become afraid to even go near his mother's good set.

Watching Thorin attempt to help tidy up the house was rather amusing as well. Perhaps it was just his mind acting out of desperation not to damage Bag End in his madness, but the dwarf king seemed to tiptoe around his valuables during cleaning. Whenever he saw something particularly delicate, like the little glass figurine on his mantel, he gave it a look that bordered on quiet horror, before mumbling that Bilbo ought to dust it instead. Thorin was, however, not nearly as gentle around his books. Several elvish tomes, which he valued highly, had been chucked across the room at a chair in order to dust the space beneath them.

As much as his mind tried to make the image of the King Under the Mountain into the picture of domesticity, it failed. Bilbo gave him no direction either, so he continued to look painfully out of place.

Five days after Bilbo's mind had snapped, something rather drastic changed. It was the first time he had seen fit to attend to his little garden behind Bag End and that was where it had started. It had been early morning and Thorin seemed to be sleeping in, as he didn't find the hobbit outside for quite some time. By that time, Bilbo was down on his hands and knees in the dirt, fussing with his herbs. A short conversation of the merits of fresh grown produce and spices had led to the King digging into work beside him. Bilbo had, of course, snapped at him about muddy boots in the house ("my mother's glory box will never be the same!"), and had ordered his footwear off. The simple removal of shoes had seemed to ignite a change in the dwarf.

Later the same day, Thorin had left the house to go to market, mumbling about needing food and a desire to integrate himself. Bilbo had merely been thankful for the time alone and waved him off to go on his merry way.

When the dwarf returned, his arms were laden with parcels of food and one small wrapped package that Bilbo couldn't immediately identify.

The new food, the hobbit thought, was his mind's way of explaining how his pantry appeared to be emptying faster at the consumption of two people, when in reality it was only himself eating.

Thorin, since returning, had fortunately seen fit to leave him in peace for a little while longer. He heard the dwarf attempting to stow the food away for a short time before he disappeared into whatever spare room in the house he had taken up residence in. The clattering noises stopped then and Bilbo gladly returned to his reading.

Of course Thorin did eventually return, announcing himself with a clearing of his throat from the doorway of the study. The vision that greeted Bilbo left him stunned speechless, his jaw hanging slack.

Thorin looked to be the near perfect embodiment of Shire domesticity. He wore brown trousers, hemmed a little below the knees, a white collared shirt, tucked into his waistband and the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Over the shirt was a stunning, deep blue waistcoat, decorated with a soft pattern of vines peppered with leaves in a lighter blue thread. His feet were bare still, though clean and tidy, and surprisingly, his hair was wrangled and tied back loosely at his neck. Stranger still, with his body so light in its adornment, Bilbo noticed now that the King lacked any sort of jewelry. If nothing else, he'd expected to see a ring on his hand, the seal of his line, but it was absent.

"I'm not sure it suits me," Thorin had said. "But it is rather comfortable."

"It suits you." Bilbo managed around the lump building in his throat. It was perfect on him, magnificent really. Thorin didn't look like a hobbit, but Bilbo had never wanted him to. When he'd imagined this scene, he'd not been able to consider how reality (his reality, not true reality) would pale in comparison. Thorin looked how he'd wanted, but more. A dwarf, his dwarf, but without all of the war and violence that seemed to always hang on him. Here, in his home, dressed in the clothes of his people, Thorin looked at peace and oh so right.

Thorin had taken in Bilbo's surprise with a bright smile, so foreign on his face, but beautiful. Then he stepped closer, leaning over the shocked hobbit and pressing his lips to his forehead. He brushed a soft touch over his lover's curls, blue eyes piercing him with a look so sweet it took his breath away all over again, but he turned and retreated from the room.

Bilbo had been left to stew in the warmth and mild confusion the incident had left him with. It was perhaps the first time Bilbo had thought, "Well, what's a little madness when it feels so wonderful?"

The next few days came easier to Bilbo. He had moved from ignoring his ghost to allowing him, then to a sort of acceptance. He worried what might befall him if he were to truly give himself over to this fantasy, but he couldn't help but indulge in it just a smidge.

They were closer now, not enough to where Bilbo could truly let them fall into that life, but more to what they had been on the road to Erebor. There were touches, fleeting, but it always left pleasant tingles on the hobbit's skin. They talked now, back and forth, conversations that were easy and stimulating. Sometimes there was a kiss, on a brow or a cheek, but only on skin, never lips. Bilbo wasn't ready for that and Thorin seemed to understand his silent cues when it all became too much.

It was nice, this balance that existed between them. It seemed to ease the ghost's worry as Bilbo rejected him less in less. There was still a bit of sadness, as the hobbit still kept him at arms length much of the time, but the heart shattering looks came to a stop. Life seemed to be falling back into a familiar pattern for Bilbo and he was becoming content in this false life his madness had created. That is, until his relatives came to visit.

It started, as so many things did, with a knock on his door. Bilbo had been in the midst of assembling a batch of jam filled pastries for a teatime snack, when he heard it. He gave a soft sigh and shook his head, wishing that whichever neighbor it was would leave him in peace. He'd just have to go deal with them. Though at least this time, Thorin wasn't around to peer at him suspiciously from another room as he shooed whoever it was away. The ghostly dwarf was, at the moment, attending to his garden. A rather strange habit, one he thought the actual Thorin wouldn't really have taken up, but nice nonetheless. Surprisingly, the king was actually very good at differentiating weeds from actual crops and was more than happy to rid his the beds of them.

Grumbling a bit to himself, Bilbo dusted off his floury hands. He really should put a sign up to stop this nonsense. That, unfortunately was a thought a bit too late as there was still the problem knocking loudly on his door. So he left his half assembled treats and went to open it. "Thank you for your concern, but I really am rather busy right now, so if you could come back in... Oh another week—"

As soon as the door was open, his words stuck in his throat.

"Bilbo!" Came the bright tone of his cousin Primula, whose face held a smile of barely restrained humor at his annoyed words.

"Cousin." Drogo greeted, one arm wrapped lovingly around his wife's back.

"Uncle Bilbo!" Came the third voice, much lower than the others and higher pitched.

Uncle Bilbo felt most of his irritability drain away at the sight of the happy family on his doorstep. "Frodo, my dear boy!" he said, grinning as he grabbed the boy under his arms and swung him up high. The fauntling gave a squeal of joy and latched onto the older hobbit's neck as soon as he came close enough. When the dark haired child was settled against him, Primula swept in for a hug that nearly crushed Frodo between them,

"What brings you up this way?" Bilbo asked once he could breathe again, smiling around at the family. "Oh dear, my manners. Come in! Tea isn't quite ready yet, but I'll get it started!"

"Oh, just some interesting rumors floating around, nothing unusual for the Shire." Primula said, patting him on one cheek as she swished by him and into the house. "Cousin, is that a real smile I see? Haven't seen one of those in quite a while!" Drogo gave him a friendly nod and followed behind her.

"Rumors are nasty things." Bilbo sighed, closing the front door and trailing them into his kitchen, with the child held up in one arm. "And I do believe I've smiled plenty. Hard not to when you have a little one hanging on your every word for a story." He gave Frodo's stomach a soft prod to drive home the point and the fauntling was left giggling against his neck.

Primula gave him a look that said she knew better before picking Frodo from his arms. "Sweetheart, how about you go look in the garden for fairies? Your Uncle and I have some boring things to discuss. We'll call you when tea is ready, okay?"

Frodo gave his mother a look of wide-eyed wonder, his eyes so incredibly blue it was a wonder that no one had yet drowned in them. "There are fairies in the garden?"

"Fairies, dwarves, remarkable what you might find." Bilbo muttered absently, but instantly regretted it. Didn't really need to encourage himself like that.

Instantly, Frodo wiggled in his mother's grip, urging to be let down. As soon as his little feet hit the floor he was off like a shot toward the back door, dark curls bouncing with every step.

"Such a good lad." Bilbo remarked. Primula cuffed him.

"What was that for?" he asked, rubbing the back of his head. It didn't hurt that bad, but she had still hit him!

"Easy dear." Drogo reprimanded her, though he looked like he didn't at all disagree with the move. He made for the cabinet then, taking out the kettle and cups. If his cousin was taking care of making tea, well what that meant for Bilbo, he wasn't quite sure, but it probably wasn't good.

"A week!" Primula hissed, her cheery expression turning sour. "You said you were coming to visit a week ago! And we haven't heard one pip from you in that time!"

"Things happened!" he exclaimed, suddenly rather afraid for his well-being. "I forgot!"

"Bilbo Baggins!" She huffed, giving his shoulder a hard shove. Over her shoulder, Drogo half heartedly suggested she not injure his cousin but seemed more interested in the water he was heating up.

"I didn't want to leave the house for a while," Bilbo said, sidestepping her and looping around the table to avoid her. "If you hadn't noticed, I haven't been having the best time since returning."

"I had noticed." She replied, looking fierce as she half chased him around the table. "And when I questioned you about it you lied to me and pushed it off. So now what's going on, holed up in your house all day? I want the truth!"

Bilbo desperately moved towards Drogo, his eyes pleading for help. "Sorry, but I'm with her on this." He told him with a shrug.

Giving up on hiding behind her husband, Bilbo went back to being chased around the kitchen table to avoid Primula's almost violent pursuit. "Truth? Okay! I've been on an adventure!"

"Bilbo..."

"With thirteen dwarves and a wizard, and I came back rather different."

"Ah yes, being completely despondent and lying about it to your family and then turning into a complete recluse. Very different. Good wording." Primula hissed sarcastically.

"Excuse me! My emotional state is a bit of a side effect of all of that!" Bilbo shot back, ducking just in time to dodge a slap to the back of the head before he darted back around the table. "I went through quite a lot and I think I deserve to be able to mourn if I so choose!"

"Mourn WHAT Bilbo?!" Primula half shouted at him. "Yes, we've heard the bits about the trolls and the spiders and your grand rides on giant eagles, but what else?"

"Perhaps I'm not ready to share all that and that is MY business!"

"And your health is MY business!"

"Uncle Bilbo, I found one!"

All three hobbits halted where they were and turned toward the door then, though Primula let out a strangled sound of barely controlled rage as they did.

Frodo came trotting happily through the doorway, feet smeared with mud and the brightest grin he'd ever seen on a child's face. Behind him, two big fingers wrapped in the child's small hand, was Thorin Oakenshield, looking only a tad confused, much to his credit.

"Bilbo... I didn't know you were having family over today."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the part where I say that the next update will probably take a while...
> 
> Spring break is here, I have family over, I'm leaving town for a few days, I'm attending local festivals, and I have a lot of schoolwork to deal with. So, I'll do my best to get one up within the next week, but no guarantees...
> 
> Also, for anyone who is at all curious, I'd like to just mention that the name of this story came from a James Blunt song called "High." It's not really at all relevant to the story, but the line stuck out for me.
> 
> Although I will say, the song "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men reminds me horribly of this story.
> 
> Anyway, thanks again for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after a good long while, here's an update!
> 
> I'll admit, I'm not horribly fond of how it turned out, just because of the flow in some places.
> 
> Still, hope you enjoy it!

"Oh good! For once the rumors  _are_ true!" Primula exclaimed, clapping her hands together. Amazing how she could go from fierce to so cheery that swiftly...

"Dwarves in the garden, imagine that." Drogo said, giving a deep rumbling laugh.

"Where are my manners," Primula said then, pushing past Bilbo to approach the dwarf. She gave a little swish of her dress in a curtsy, accompanied by an inclination of her head. "Primula Baggins, my dear sir."

"Mama...!" Frodo piped up, eyes wide with wonder. His hand still clutched at Thorin's fingers, but with his free hand he grabbed at his mother's skirts. "Mama, I think he's a King...!"

"Dear, I think you might be right!" She told her son, an odd twinkle in her eyes. "I am rather underdressed then. Am I in the presence of the illustrious Thorin Oakbranch, King Under the Mountain?"

Thorin cleared his throat, though the sound appeared to be covering a laugh. He tried to hide his smile in his beard. "I..." he began, his humor disappearing for his imposing presence. "Am Thorin Oakenshield, no longer King Under the Mountain, but a humble resident of Bag End with Mister Baggins, at your service."

"I'm Frodo Baggins!" the child gripping his hand chimed in. "I'm not king of nothing, but da sometimes calls me a royal pain."

"Only when it's bath time," Said parent replied. He trailed a bit closer to the gathering, giving a little bow. "Drogo Baggins. Begging your pardon, but it wouldn't be right not to offer my services to royalty, king or not."

"That is unnecessary, but thank you nonetheless." Thorin replied, smiling easily now. The child before him gave his hand a few hard tugs and he crouched down beside him.

"Are Cousin Bilbo's stories really all true then?" Frodo asked, his voice filled with barely contained excitement. "The trolls and the elves and the dragon and everything?"

"Everything. Right down to the shape changer and my enormous stupidity in the face of all of the gold of Erebor."

Frodo's mouth dropped open a little before he clicked it shut and shook the dwarf's hand roughly. "He hasn't told me  _that_ part yet! Don't spoil it!" he whined, his lips turning down in a pout. "Cousin Bilbo won't tell me the end."

Thorin gave the child a little smile, though the look in his eyes spoke of sorrow. "Well perhaps he'll be coaxed into it soon," he said gently. "The tale should come easier now."

"And I suppose we have you to thank for that Mister Oakenbra—Shield." Primula said, crossing her arms over her chest smugly. "He may have socially vanished, but he does seem happier. Right, Bilbo?"

The former King cast a look at the burglar. "Bilbo?"

There was no response. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was staring across the kitchen and into empty space. If Fili and Kili had perfected the art of the thousand-mile stare, it was this hobbit that seemed to possess the ability of the million-mile stare.

"Bilbo, are you well?" Thorin asked again, brows knitting together in worry. He took a step toward the other, but looked reluctant to actually reach out and touch him, as if he might break on contact.

Perhaps he would. While Bilbo's body looked strung up tight and still as a statue, his mind was far from inactive.

_FrodoseeshimPrimulaseeshimDr ogoseeshim_ _**Iseehim** _ _HecannotberealHediedThisisim possibleThorinisdead_ _**Isawhimdie** _ _ImournedTherewasbloodSomuchb loodHowcanhebehereHowcanthey touchhimHowcantheyseehimHowh owhowhowWhatisgoingonThorini sdeadButThorinishere_ _**Thorinisdead** _

Just as Thorin reaches out to grasp his arm, Bilbo lurches forward. For a brief moment, his footsteps look like they might throw him to the ground. One, two, three steps and he is at the counter, his body swaying, but standing up. His hands tremble, but he reaches for a teacup, clacking it on the counter softly. He can feel every pair of eyes in the room on his back, but he takes a deep breath (it sounds shallow and gasping, but it's all he can manage). Carefully as he can, he picks up the teapot and pours himself some of the steaming brew.

"Thank the gods for Chamomile." He laughs out, his voice sounding manic, even to his ears. The tea slops on the counter, but he ignores it, reaching for the sugar. He carefully scoops a small teaspoon out and attempts to stir it into his cup. Most of it ends up on the counter, the little grains joining the mess of the spilled tea.

"Bilbo—" This time it's Primula, giving him a look mixed between quiet horror and worry.

"No, no. Let me just—Tea, dear cousin. I need my tea. Nothing more." Bilbo says. He tries to sound confident and commanding, ignoring the way a sob caught in his throat causes his voice to hitch. With unsteady hands, he takes the cup between both hands and turns from the counter.

Frodo is looking at him with big, sad eyes. Even such a small fauntling can see through him. Thorin looks caught between worry and protective rage, something that would be endearing were he able to bring himself to care at this moment.

Bilbo walks past them, steps sound, but his hands far from it. The heat coming off of the porcelain is enough to scald his hands, but as he walks toward his sitting room, the water sloshing from the cup turned the skin on his hands an angry red. He could barely feel it.

He shuffled past Thorin in the hallway, managing to not touch him in the process, and through the next doorway into his sitting room. His father's favorite chair was calling to him and he eagerly settled down in it with his cup. "Oh," he said after a moment. "I seem to have spilled all of my tea."

"I'll get you some more cousin." Drogo said, voice heavy with unspoken concern. He moved into the room and took the cup from Bilbo's hands.

Somewhere over Bilbo's shoulder, he could hear pieces a murmured conversation starting up.

"..Saw him like this once... Give him some tea and let him sit."

"...Looks ready to faint..."

"...Is Cousin Bilbo alright...?"

Bilbo forced himself to take in a shuddering breath and clench his eyes shut. The world had begun to swim around him, and he thought he might actually faint.

Something was seriously wrong here. Thorin was dead, he'd held onto him until the end, talked to him as he passed on. He'd been so pale and cold in those last few minutes; only the shallow breaths had made him aware that the King had still been alive. But then... Thorin's chest had stilled. Bilbo hadn't stayed for the burial, he couldn't take the thought. He still couldn't bring himself to accept the idea of his love's body, icy and rotting in a stone tomb so many miles away.

Then, the departed King had come to him, glorious and brilliant as he had been in life. So disturbed by his anguish, he realized Thorin was only a product of his imagination. He couldn't live without his King, and so his grief-stricken mind had given him this vision.

That was all he was; A vision. He had been so sure. This shadow of a memory, walking with him, talking with him, had given him back some of his former life. He had been able to relax, just a little, and allow himself to smile. But every day, he had to remind himself it wasn't real. The little looks, the soft touches, none of it. Every plate Thorin cleaned, every mantle he dusted, and every weed he pulled was just an allowance of his mind. Thorin had done none of that, because the King Under the Mountain had died months ago. Now he was just a ghost of a memory.

_But Frodo could see him._

He wasn't imagining his family, that he knew. There was something more normal about them. When he had opened the door to see them, it had felt real and solid, like their presence had grounded him.

_But they can all see Thorin._

_But Thorin is dead._

_Thorin isn't real._

_Nothing Thorin has done is real._

"Bilbo," Drogo said, interrupting his thoughts. "Your tea. Not as hot, so it shouldn't scald your hands this time around." His cousin extended his teacup to him, a gentle whisp of steam curling off of the liquid in it.

"Perhaps I should go get a bit of butter from the larder." Primula suggested from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest with a worried expression. "Looks like you burned your hands pretty bad..."

_Click,_ His mind went.

_"_ Peaches!" Bilbo shouted suddenly. He shot up from his chair so fast that Drogo nearly spilled the tea all over himself in an attempt to dodge his cousin's abrupt movement.

"Peaches?" Everyone echoed in confusion.

"Yes!" Bilbo replied, planting his hands on his hips. For a hobbit who had just looked on the verge of fainting, he looked surprisingly smug. "Peaches will solve this whole mess once and for all! Don't you see?"

"I'm afraid I don't follow." Primula replied, eyebrows raised high.

"Peaches?" Thorin repeated again.

"Peaches are good." Frodo chimed in. "Eating them makes me happy, will it make you feel better too Cousin Bilbo?"

"Very possibly, my boy." The former burglar replied. "No, no, keep the bloody tea. I don't need it anymore." He made soft shooing motions as Drogo almost sheepishly tried to pass him the cup again before he sidestepped the other hobbit all together and took off down the hallway. "I'll just be a moment!"

Bilbo turned the corner into his well-stocked larder. Briefly, happy memories of the same place decimated and emptied by dwarves flashed through his mind. His lips turned up in a soft smile as he grabbed for a basket on the middle shelf. Prize in hand, he fled the room and padded quickly back into the kitchen.

"A peach, in season, pink, and perfectly ripe!" Bilbo declared, hand extended with said fruit displayed in his palm.

"I picked them up at the market a few days ago." Thorin said automatically, eyebrows knit together in thought. "You were almost out of food."

"I didn't realize I was almost out of food." Bilbo replied, rolling the peach in his hands. The fuzz on the skin of the fruit was soft and the flesh underneath yielded to his fingers, making clear just how juicy it was underneath.

"I apologize," Thorin said, casting his eyes toward the floor. "I don't mean to be a burden, but I do eat quite a lot. I insist you allow me to restock your pantry for you as payment."

Bilbo snorted and waved a hand at him. "I have plenty of money, your appetite is hardly a problem. However, YOU are a bit of a problem!"

"Cousin, that's rather rude, to say it so bluntly..." Primula interjected.

"It's true though. Ever since he got here, I've been sure he's been just a figment of my imagination you know. "

Thorin, face turning downtrodden at Bilbo's previous words, suddenly opened up in surprise. "Imagination—Bilbo, what are you talking about?"

"Hush, Thorin, let me speak, I'm still trying to come to terms with all this myself," Bilbo said, effectively brushing the King off. He turned to look at his smallest cousin now, whom had begun to look very puzzled by the conversation going on above him. "Frodo, did you know, last week, the peach crop wasn't ripe?"

Frodo gave a vigorous nod and smiled, "Mama only got some yesterday! But they're really good!"

"Last week, when I went shopping myself, before Thorin showed up at my door, there were no peaches for sale. But now, I have a cupboard filled with the ripe, juicy fruit! If Thorin is a product of my imagination, basically my boy, if I was truly the 'Mad Baggins' that so many say I am, how would I have these peaches? Thorin bought them two days ago and here they are."

"So if the peach is real, Thorin is real?"

"Exactly. You are sharp for one so young." Bilbo crouched down before the boy now, ruffling his dark hair. "So, is it real?" he asked, glancing around at the other occupants of the room, all looking equally stunned. A smirk flickering across his lips, Bilbo bit into the peach. He was greeted with the heavenly taste of thick, syrupy juice pooling in his mouth and dribbling down his chin. He chewed and swallowed, swiping his tongue over his lips to capture what he could of the sticky juice before giving his young cousin a grin. "It seems real to me. But I might be crazy. Frodo, would you do the honors for me?"

Bouncing on his toes, Frodo nodded, his dark curls bouncing on his head. When the peach was offered to him, he eagerly took it from his cousin's hand and bit into it excitedly. He made a humming sound in satisfaction before grabbing another mouthful. Face sticky and eyes bright, he nodded again. "It's really real! Good too. Can I finish it?"

"Yes of course lad, it's all yours. Mind the pit," Bilbo replied as his eyes drifted to the figure a ways behind the fauntling.

Thorin was staring up him with unconcealed concern, but there was another emotion there... It might have been sympathy, but there was also understanding beginning to dawn. "You... Thought I was dead." He said after a moment.

"I thought you were dead," Bilbo repeated, standing. "But you aren't. I'm not sure how, but you're alive and here. In my kitchen."

Primula made a strangled "Oh" sound as the pieces clicked into place for her now. It took only a moment then, as she swung her son up into her arms and grabbed for her husband's elbow. "A bit of privacy might be in order." She hissed out, before flashing a brilliant grin at cousin. "Lovely visit, we'll have to do it again soon. Maybe I'll swing by tomorrow?" she said as a way of farewell even as she dragged her family, protesting weakly, out the door. The two remaining in the kitchen didn't even seem to notice their sudden disappearance.

"Aye, I'm alive." Thorin murmured, taking a hesitant step forward once the room was clear. "And you—Bilbo I had no idea that you were..."

"It doesn't matter what I was, you're alive!" Bilbo exclaimed, his eyes damp now, but a smile bright on his face. In the next moment, he flung himself at his fiancé, arms thrown around his neck to find purchase on that thick mane of hair behind. He had to tug only once before Thorin allowed himself to be pulled down.

Their lips connected, smacking together with a force that made Bilbo's teeth rattle, but he hardly cared. All that mattered was pulling him closer and never letting him go. While Bilbo seemed to want to consume Thorin in that moment, to hold onto him and never let him go again, the former king was gentle, slow, like he had been waiting for this moment and wanted to savor every piece of it and commit it to memory.

Thorin was alive and Bilbo was never going to let him go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I think i'll have like one more plot based chapter after this, then I should be able to get on with the fluff!
> 
> Also, the next update may be a bit slow as well, just because of some school craziness, but it won't be as long of a gap this time.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
